Post on 04-Apr-2018
7/31/2019 Your Disappearance by David Wirthlin Book Preview
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YourDisappearance
David Wirthlin
BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York
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Your Disappearance by David Wirthlin
Copyright 2009
Published by BlazeVOX [books]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may bereproduced without the publishers written permission,except for brief quotations in reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Book design by Geoffrey Gatza
First EditionISBN: 9781935402404Library of Congress Control Number 2009925616
BlazeVOX [books]14 Tremaine AveKenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org
publisher of weird little books
BlazeVOX [ books ]blazevox.org
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Rod is Canaries
Everyday I wake up thinking about her. Those bare feet
on cold asphalt. To anyone else this is trivial. To me, toher, all encompassing, important. Kids running in the
night, the night running the kids. The writing on the
asphalt in wax. Shuffle shuffle feet, bare and cold,
roughed up in the middle of the night. I wonder how
any of this happened, speculate if it did.
Again, the writing on the asphalt, Rod is
Canaries.
Who did this? Dont know.
You? Course not.
How any of this means, the subjectivity of Rod
being canaries.
The kid walks like a giraffe, arm braces up front,
standard human biped in back, head pointed up, neck
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stretched, straining. Quadruped instead of winged.
Maybe he did it.The kid cant even talk, how could he write?
Considering the nature of a person predisposed
to obsession.
Morning after the cold night, she called, What is
Rod is Canaries?
I give up, what is it? Give me the punch line.
I am the punch line.
Use me interchangeably with her and me. Run
simultaneously with Rod is Canaries.
What is the limit, the threshold before a spiral?
The writing outside never washed away. Scrubbing all
night, into the morning, giraffes lacking the ability to
arrange words, the impossibility of relating to
handicaps. She could never address it directly, but
confronted it daily.
In the park, reading a book, bare feet on the cold
asphalt. Violet sky, purple sky, always resting on the
bench.
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Clik clak clik clak.
How could anyone do this to him? Indirectly tome?
Clik clak clik clak, coming closer.
Purple sky shifting back to violet, absorbed in a
book, but hearing.
Clik clak clik clak, almost upon her.
I never imagined my mornings like this.
How did you get here?
Clik clak.
Does Mom know?
Clik clak, right upon her.
Arm braces fall off, clak clak on the ground.
Giraffe, he stands erect, leaps in the air, hovers. Blue ball
of light envelops Rod, growing larger, brighter,
exploding. Beams of light outward, dissipating in the
violet sky. A canary hovers above, gently flapping
wings. Lands on her head, tugging at hair. Pecking at
her head, beak full of hair, pecking at her head, beak full
of skull, pecking at her head, beak full of brain.
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Had we known all this, all this would be averted.
Everyday like this without fail.I cant understand it. What is to understand? Its
everyday. Me too.
Can the asphalt, cold and rough, hold anything?
How do we look without looking? In the time that has
passed, has there been any indication of this?
We will run, sit, ponder, cry. Her nights without
end are happening now. Mornings try to cover a
semblance of memory. In this end we are together, but
there, always apart.
The bottom of those feet are worn without
reason. Habitual stockyards of asphalt and canaries,
time honored, resisted.
Will it never end? But we cannot. Of course.
Before cold asphalt was smiles and warmth. But
nevertheless sinister.
Is there ever such thing as really letting go?
In front of the house, the writing. If this only
had been important to you.
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Clik clak clik clak.
I will conjure her at any point, if necessary.Clik clak clik clak.
Please.
Stop.
Arm braces drop, triumphant. In the sky, above
her head, hovering, bright blue, Rod, the ball of blue,
expands, bursts. Canaries canaries canaries, swirling,
diving, everywhere. Canaries canaries canaries, flecks of
skull, bits of brain, blood.
This can only end at no end. And yet, only she,
not I, and I, not she. Interchangeably, not interlocking.
The very nature of us, him, her, I. Back to the
night, after one revolution, waking to it every morning.
I cannot handle another time.
Rod is canaries, regardless.
My view of the house unblemished by wax. The
approach of bare feet on grass.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh.
Listen to what Ive heard.
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Smoke billows out of her mouth, and a light in
her throat grows brighter. The tracks extend to the tipof her tongue. At the tip of the tracks the train spills out
of her mouth into a viscous puddle on the floor.
Of all the places for this to happen, of all the
times, of all.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh.
She floats, a ball of blue that explodes into
hundreds of yellow birds. Pecking at me, at herself.
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Number One
These pencil shavings are immersive and I struggle to
breath. My eyes arent open but I know Im in a box.
All around me - up, down, side to side. These pencil
shavings are not an accident. The box is a five-foot
square, completely full of shavings. Im a part of this,
and the pencil shavings spill over. The floor piles are
contaminated and cant be used.
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Saxophonist
A man plays a saxophone along the banks of a concrete
riverbed. He is the only person within a hundred yard
radius, and he plays facing a wall. From our standpoint,
we can't hear any sound, so it's only an assumption that
he actually plays. The thought crossed your mind that it
would be wonderful if he wasn't playing. He was a
saxophone mime without an audience, a performer at
heart but musically talentless. He was an introvert, you
said, a claustrophobic introvert that could not remain in
that little apartment of his. His ex-wife was
agoraphobic, and this irreconcilable difference
ultimately led to their undoing.
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A Future Event
We liked to sound smart,
We kept going back and forth on your idea of futurism,
often in heated debate. The future is now, you always
started with, and at which point I rolled my eyes. We
are living in the future of the past. There is never a now,
only a future now. When I make a statement, the time
that elapses from word utterance to sound recognition
and then brain computation, though slight, roots those
instances in two separate times. As such, I know that
when I make a statement, I know its only existence is in
a future time. Everything is always either past or future.
There is no present.
I always responded by commenting on how ridiculous
you could be. Time is more complicated than two mere
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divisions. You mention the past and the future, but
where is the division between the two? There must besome separation, even if only a flash or a blip, there is a
line that divides, and that line is the present.
Why must there be a dividing line? In reality there isonly one continuous time. We create divisions in time
for our own clarity, but time is always moving. Both
past and present are static. Only the future moves.
The future only moves because the present pushes it
forward. Youre right when you say time is continuous,
but your focus is off. The past and the future are
imaginary constructs, and we are always grounded in
the reality of the present. As the present moves rapidly
along, we move along with it, and the construct of the
future is constantly pushed out of our reach.
You threw the lamp at me and I jumped out of the way.
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If you are so sure that the future is unattainable, why
were your actions motivated by a future event? You
only jumped out of the way because of the danger of
getting hit by the lamp, a future event.
You threw a lamp at me.
To prove a point.
You threw a lamp at me.
but we were both so incredibly stupid.
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Lemon
You had that lemon seed stuck in your nostril. At night,
you picked at it until blood trickled out. You imaginedthe blood would lubricate the seed and the flow would
move it along, but it continued to plague you into the
morning. You awakened with blood crusted on the rim
of your nose and on your pillow. Every day in the
shower you blew your nose into your hands, and the
seed would slip between your fingers, bounce on the
shower floor and disappear down the drain.
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Pieces of Unequal Stories
Small mass,
Die frivolous and disgraceful, curt and foolish.
Cysts are only curt stories of the past, and they die a
genius of small bags. When fingers die, they are only
curt stories of the past, and a fragment of small bags, no
less. Mischievous stories are often unequal and broken,
the fragment of pettiness put together and broken up,
windows of minuteness into a disgraceful mass. The
pieces of unequal stories are broken up into a foolish
past. They are windows into the minuteness of genius,
and the genius of a fragment. The mischievous pieces
never die, and they are often broken into fingers.
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Your Dogs
One of the dogs has its jaw wired shut, with only a
small opening on one side for breathing, eating,
drinking. Mostly, its tongue hangs out. It walks up to
me and lays down, head on my bag. Water drips off the
jowls; the tongue goes in and out trying to catch the
water, but instead, saliva pools on the edge of the
opening until it is thick and white. It has difficulty
breathing through the small opening, and the harder it
breathes, the heavier the saliva pool gets. Finally, the
saliva slides off the edge of the opening slowly, and the
droplet barely hangs on. It drops onto my bag, then
slides onto my foot. I look around to see if anyone else
has noticed, but no one gives any indication they have.
The other dog is blind, its eyes aqua and milky, its coat
milky too. It lumbers into the room, knocks into a
chair, heads straight toward me. Its not slowing down
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and its only a few feet away; then inches from me and
the other dog, it stops, sits, stares. Those aqua eyespenetrate me. I know its not really staring, because it
cant, but its unnerving. I wonder what a completely
blind dog does when it directs its eyes at someone. It
cant know its looking at me, and yet, for the remainder
of my time here, it never breaks that gaze.
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Number Two
The rock has been polished to a remarkable sheen - a
lustrous and dripping mirrored finish. The kind of rock
that is slippery when wet and even more so when dry.
Flip it over in my pocket once. I remove my hand and
the rock turns perpetually. The gleaming rock could
make teeth chatter in the winter. But this is summer, so
it just spins in my pocket.
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Iron Rich Fertility
The bones rise up, separate, hover around you, and now
you are in the midst of bones. You lie with your back in
the mud dense with iron rich fertility. Foliage breaks
the surface of the mud around you, little green fingers
emerging from brown, bones hovering above you. The
foliage reaches for bones, and all you do is watch as
green arms extend skyward, surrounding you. At first,
the plants are cold to the touch but warm quickly as
they wrap tighter. You dont struggle to move or break
free; you enjoy this moment, wearing nothing but
green. As the plants envelope your entire body, you feel
safe, secure. Your smile and dilated pupils are the onlythings exposed, absorbing the masterpiece I orchestrate
from above. Plants grab bones and pull them down
gently until they lie around but not on top of you. You
see me in the branches of the tree above, and we laugh
until our eyes tear up.
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The Apple Fell
She took a few steps toward me, then stopped and
retreated. She said, What do you think you're doing?
Mostly, I hover upright, like I'm standing, but really
I'm not even touching the ground. Sleep-wise, I float
horizontal.
Both my teacher and I waited, unwilling to breathe.
Most of my classmates looked at our teacher, their eyes
pleading for guidance. One student looked toward the
ceiling as his legs began to twitch. He looked at me witha smile. My teacher rushed over and handed him a
textbook. Will you please hand this to your colleague?
He nodded his head and stood up. His eyes were fixedon the book. Shuffling his feet, he made his way
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through the maze of desks to where I was hovering.
Without making eye contact, he extended the book tome. Sorry, he said.
As soon as the book was in my hands I began drifting
down toward my chair. I stopped a couple feet above it.My teacher dug in her bag and produced several other
textbooks. She stuffed them in my backpack, and said,
Take a look at these, and then tell me what you think.
She handed it to me, smirking.
I put the backpack on and plummeted earthward. I
bounced off the top of my desk and landed face first on
the linoleum floor. My classmates laughed. I remained
there until every single person had left the room. All
day I wore that bag, and all day I remained grounded.
My Dad punched me in the face, knocking me to my
feet. I saw his heart pumping -- his face a red balloon,
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full of too much air. The school called, he said. What in
hell's name do you think you're doing?
I stood erect, blood trickling down my face. We stared
at each other forever. Answer me.
My mouth remained closed.
Don't think I won't hit you again.
Slowly, I lifted off the ground. He came after me,
swinging wildly, but I rose above his punches.
Obscenities flew out of his mouth, but those missed me
too. He ran to the kitchen, returning with a broom. He
painted giant arcs with it, but each time the broom came
near the preceding rush of air would shift me out of its
path.
He flung the broom against the wall. I could hear tears
spilling down his cheeks. I don't get it, he said and sat
down on the cold tile floor, his face buried between his
knees. He spoke softly to himself, like I no longer
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existed.
I looked down upon him for several minutes, unsure
how to react.
My mother entered the room, scowling and shaking her
head. Come with me, she said. She led the way to my
bedroom. After a few feet she stopped. Without looking
at me, she pointed down and said, On the ground, I
quickly obeyed, entering the bedroom on foot. We satdown on my bed. You're killing your father, she said.
I picked at my fingernails. Get some sleep, she said.
When everyone was asleep, I hovered into the kitchen
and took out a bottle of my parent's favorite vodka. I
filled all the shot glasses my parents owned, and lined
them atop the refrigerator.
I woke up plastered to the linoleum floor a few hours
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later, breathing urine. Eventually I got up and walked to
my room. Walked because I had to. Alcohol and gravityare twins. I found my bed and collapsed.
At school the next day I wore a full backpack. In every
class I added a book to ensure I remained grounded. Asthe day wore on, the pack's effectiveness wore off. I
continued adding books until the bottom finally tore
out.
I'm a baby again. My mother cradles me in her arms,
softly humming a lullaby. She lightly rubs my cheek as
she rocks me back and forth. She says, You can do
anything you want when you grow up. Anything.
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Number Three
Ive been wearing this eyelash for days.
But it has not illuminated your vision.
How it affected the original owner, we may never
know.
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Consider the Loss
Fragile, like an orchid floating in milk, your
grandmother told stories. To think that a woman now
so frail, so gentle, could be capable of anything of that
magnitude.
There is a peace about her now that I wish you could be
here to see. She speaks of you as though you are a
distant memory, but you are not far removed. It is clear
things requiring forgiveness remain unforgiven.
Consider the loss. These stories fall from your
grandmothers tongue while others drip from ours, and
all the while you sit unreachable, of your own accord or
of necessity. Still, the loss is immeasurable.
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Unforgiven, fragile like your grandmother, only strong
in your own versions of the past.
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Bare Foot
I still slide my feet, wear socks on the hardwood at
night. You hated my bare feet slapping, especially when
trying to sleep.
You sat up straight looking disoriented, then upset.
Shhhh, you said louder than my bare foot slap. I let it
go. Said, Okay.
Tried to just slide or shuffle, but bare feet dont slide,
and squeak when shuffling. Slippers are cumbersome
and loud.
You never woke during my experimentation period, but
did stir. Eventually found socks worked best. Silent and
slippery, but impossible to sleep in.
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Kept a pair next to the night stand, put them on every
time I woke up needing a drink or a trip to the
bathroom, took them off before getting back in bed.
How many times do I have to ask you to put your
socks away? Sorry. Ill try to do better. Just put them in
your drawer. Ill try, okay?
But the drawer is too loud and too far way. Too much
risk of waking you. Much rather be the slob and let you
sleep than give it away.
You never knew any of this because it worked. Though
the house is empty, I put socks on every time I crawl
out of bed, sometimes out of habit, others because I feel
youre there, like I might wake you, even if I know I
cant.
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Number Four
9:06:14 FS Melbourne, this is Delta Sierra Juliet. Is
there any known traffic below five
thousand?
9:06:23 Delta Sierra JulietNo known traffic.
9:06:26 I amseems (to) be a large aircraft below 5,000.
9:06:46 Delta Sierra JulietWhat type of aircraft is it?
9:06:50 I cannot affirm. It is four bright it seems to
me like landing lights.
9:07:04 Delta Sierra Juliet. [This statement affirms
to the pilot that the person on the ground
heard his transmission.]
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9:07:32 FS Melbourne, this (is) Delta Sierra Juliet. The
aircraft has just passed over me at least athousand feet above.
9:07:43 Delta Sierra JulietRogerand it, it is a large
aircraftconfirm?
9:07:47 Er, unknown due to the speed its travelling
is there any airforce aircraft in the vicinity?
9:07:57 Delta Sierra Juliet. No known aircraft in the
vicinity.
9:08:18 FS Melbourne its approaching now from due
east~ towards me.~
9:08:28 Delta Sierra Juliet.
9:08:42 //Open microphone for two seconds//
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9:08:49 It seems to me that hes playing some sort of
game.Hes flying over me twothreetimes at a time at speeds I could not identify.
9:09:02 Delta Sierra JulietRoger. What is your actual
level?
9:09:06 My level is four and a half thousand, four five
zero zero.~
9:09:11 Delta Sierra Juliet And confirmyou cannot
identify the aircraft.
9:09:14 Affirmative.
9:09:18 Delta Sierra JulietRoger standby.
9:09:28 FS Melbourne, Its not an aircraft it is //open
microphone for two seconds//
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9:09:46 Delta Sierra JulietMelbourne. Can you
describe theeraircraft?
9:09:52 ...as its flying past its a long shape //open
microphone for three seconds // (cannot)
identify more than that. It has such speed
//open microphone for three seconds //. It is
before me right now Melbourne.
9:10:07 Delta Sierra JulietRoger. And how large
would the erobject be?
9:10:20 DSJ FS Delta Sierra JulietMelbourne. It seems
like its (stationary). What Im doing right now
is orbiting, and the thing is just orbiting on top
of me also Its got a green light, and sort of
metallic (like)~. Its all shiny (on) the outside.
9:10:43 Delta Sierra Juliet.
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9:10:48 Its just vanished.
9:10:57 Delta Sierra Juliet.
9:11:03 FS Melbourne would you know what kind
of aircraft Ive got? It is military aircraft?
9:11:08 Delta Sierra Juliet. Confirm the eraircraft
just vanished.
9:11:14 Say again.
9:11:17 Delta Sierra Juliet. Is the aircraft still with you?
9:11:23 Its ah Nor //open microphone for two
seconds// (now) approaching from the
southwest.
9:11:37 Delta Sierra Juliet
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9:11:52 The engine is, is rough idling. Ive got it set
at twenty threetwenty four and the thingiscoughing.
9:12:04 Delta Sierra JulietRoger. What are your
intentions?
9:12:09 My intentions areah to go to King Island
Ah, Melbourne, that strange aircraft is hovering
on top of me again //open microphone for two
seconds// it is hovering and its not an aircraft.
9:12:22 Delta Sierra Juliet.
9:12:28 FS Melbourne //open microphone for 17
seconds// [A very strange pulsed noise is also
audible during this transmission.]
9:12:49 Delta Sierra Juliet.
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Car, Drive Through My Open Mouth, Down My
Throat
Mostly I shrug when I hear, How do you feel? How are
you doing? or whatever I get asked, because mostly I
dont know because the answer shifts so much. I usually
dont make the effort to pinpoint it. If I gave an answer,
by the time the answer actually formed in my head, then
by the time it came out, I would be feeling something
else. So why bother if what I say isnt even accurate?
Youre probably hoping Ill take a stab at it anyway.
Youre curious maybe, or concerned. Why not? Whats
the harm? you offer. You want me to get in touch with
the moment, I guess, or help you get in touch with my
moment. Of course its easier not to, you say. I know
this is hard. Sometimes the only way is the hard way.The only right way.
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Youre right, but after I offer this, I wont even be
feeling it. I might as well be making this up, because
what I felt when I said it, and what I feel now, or even
what Ill feel later, are not the same as what I said in the
first place. You understand that right? Maybe theres noharm, maybe its better for me, but what use is it to you
if its not even what I feel?
We could, perhaps, dispense with these formalities. Ifyou ask just to ask, Ill answer just to answer. How
does this help anyone? Of course, you insist, so I oblige.
I feel like a car has driven through my open mouth,
down my throat, and now rests somewhere in my
bowels. As much as that hurts, I know itll hurt worse
later because somehow Ive got to figure a way to
excrete it.
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Your Grandmother
Your grandmother stares at me too, like the dog with
milky blind eyes. Even with her cataracts and thick
glasses, she watches my every move. As she sits telling
stories to the group, she stares.
She stares as though shes really just telling the stories to
me. They dont seem to have relevance, but her stare
gives them relevance; the longer she stares, the more
they gain in relevance, and the more they gain in
relevance, the harder she seems to stare.
No one asks her to tell the stories, she just does, always
has when people are together. She usually spreads her
penetrating gaze throughout the group, but not this
time.
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Between stories, I stand up, walk to the kitchen. The
blind dog follows. Your grandmother stays seated butfollows with her eyes until I round the corner. Even
after Im out of her sight line, I feel like shes watching
me through the wall, like the blind dog is a homing
device, so she always knows where I am.
I try to sneak a peek by looking at her reflection in the
mirror, and her eyes meet mine on that two dimensional
plane. What am I supposed to do with this? Try to
makes heads or tails of it, or ignore it? Shes old, and
only lucid when telling stories, and then only partially
so. Or is that just an easy way to explain it away? If I
ignore it, will she eventually stop?
I walk out the kitchen door, to the side of the house,
making sure the dog doesnt follow, open the side gate,
walk down the street.
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Number Five
A box arrives on the doorstep addressed to you, return
address from you. After considering the legal
ramifications for some time, I finally open it, only to
find it empty except for a barely legible note scrawled
on a receipt. Im sorry. I couldnt take this box
anymore. I had to leave, it said.
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The Terms of Your Disappearance
I sometimes get confused about what constitutes your
disappearance. It seems something present, when a
disappearance occurs, loses presence, but really, it
doesnt. It adjusts to occupy new space, an often
unknown space.
The terms of your disappearance are always shifting,
like my feelings about it are always shifting, leaving a
pool of uneasy definitions and disappointing confusion.
Disappearance in the general sense I typically assume -
something once present, now absent - is really a form of
transformation.
In its transformation to a butterfly, couldnt it be said
the caterpillar - what we know as a caterpillar -
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disappears? If were talking about disappearance and
vanishing in the same vein, arent they just instances oftransforming materiality to immateriality or material to
invisible material?
So when I talk of your disappearance, am I limited tomaterial transformation? Is that what happened? You
were here, but now you are not? You are here though, if
only in memory form, you are here. You occupy mental
space, which is physical.
Does the fact I cannot see you limit your presence? This
presence alters my actions, thoughts, future. I cannot
touch you any longer. When I speak, you no longer
respond. If you were here, if I could brush your hair
behind your ear with my fingers, and I spoke, but you
didnt respond, like the last time you were here, could
we say you had already disappeared, transformed
emotionally, if not in physical totality?
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Where do I look to pinpoint your disappearance? Thephysical absence or much sooner, when you had
presence in the flesh, but only in a lessened state, a
physicality nearing absence? Or did you disappear
when the spiral first started? Is this created by me?
Could we still be in that process, and will only be
complete when this stops, only when I stop thinking,
pondering, crying, lamenting your disappearance in
whatever form that may be? The transformation to
disappearance only stops, the disappearance complete,
when this stops?
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Haiku Abating
I.
She squats to pee next to a clump of trees.
I stand a short distance away, out of sight.
A mob of kangaroos huddles on the other side of the
clump of trees. One of them, I suppose the leader, hops
over to her. She stands up, startled.
Face to face with the kangaroo now, shoulders slumped
submissively. The kangaroo literally looks like it wants
to box.
She starts talking. What I presume to be talking. Im
close enough to hear, but cant. Her mouth moves in the
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manner of talking. Hands gesture to accompany speech,
but again, no sound.
As soon she starts this talk-like manner, the kangaroo
becomes subdued. The more animated she is, the more
lethargic the kangaroo.
This continues for several minutes.
I think, The kangaroo looks like it will die any second.
The kangaroo drops to the ground, breathing heavy at
first, foam collecting at the corners of her mouth.
Breathing slows until it finally stops.
She doesnt stick around to see it die, but I can verify it.
Whether her doing or mine, the kangaroo is dead, and
she will suffer for it.
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II.
She has been in her cell for some thirteen years. Other
than dealing with the guilt for killing that kangaroo, it
seems her life in prison is not too bad.
Her cell is a comfortable six by eight feet, and she has all
the amenities she needs.
The cell is conveniently made of limestone, which can
decompose a human body in six months.
When she dies, theyll board up her window and door.
In six months, a little vacuuming, and shell be gone.
I still cant hear her talk, but I check in from time to
time.
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To pass time, and to her abate her guilt, she spends
nearly all her time writing poems. Here is a samplehaiku:
Oh beautiful roo
I never meant to kill you
Now I rot in jail
Time is short and her mind is nearly gone, but shes not
worried about when it finally goes.
Every day I think about that kangaroo. Sometimes I
wish I would lose my mind just to stop thinking about
her.
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Number Six
When it settles on the roof like this, the ceiling is bound
to bleed. While it does drip into the sink occasionally, it
mostly likes to remain congealed. This pancake-sized
spot of reddish viscosity is not the answer, but maybe
the drip in the sink. That drip, floating in tepid water.
Its not the drip itself, but what caused the drip, and its
not gravity or time. I scoop up the drip and wrap it in a
handkerchief.
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Your Grandmother Stares
After a few trips around the block, I return to the
kitchen, find the blind dog waiting for me at the door. It
follows me back to my seat, and lies down next to your
grandmother once Im seated. There is no one else left
in the room, except your grandmother and the two
dogs. The dog with its jaw wired shut shuffles over, lies
right next to the blind dog at your grandmothers feet,
as though theyre guarding her. There is a connection
between her and these dogs I dont understand.
Grandmother doesnt talk, hardly moves, for several
minutes, but continues to stare. The room is silent
except for the wired jaw dog lapping saliva off its jowls.
We sit like this long enough for the sun to set and the
room to get dark. Im terrified to leave now, but dont
know why. She stares like she wants to tell me
something, but doesnt, or cant.
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My Distance
I sometimes wished for a clean break, but invested
enough I felt the need to keep it going.
You see, I often got bored with you. What often seemed
like your disappearance was actually my distance.
Bored may not be accurate. More like tired. No,
exhausted, and I got so exhausted I lost interest.
I got tired of the constant presence, consistent demand
of meeting expectations that may or may not have been
realistic, but were certainly more than I wanted to meet.
This isnt the case now is it? I dont have any control
this time. Even when I thought I did, I really didnt.
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When I created distance, I thought I was exertingcontrol, but it was really just a vain manifestation of my
lack thereof.
This time its not a matter of control, just a spiral,
beyond influence.
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Fire Shroud
Finally, she moves. Sitting with her arms crossed, she
rocks back and forth in her chair, the chair itself not
moving. She rocks faster, increasing friction. Then a
spark, followed by a small flame. Waves of heat course
through her body, traveling from limb to limb. Yellow
flames envelope her, growing hotter until a blinding,
white fire shrouds her. When the flame dies out, only
scorch marks remain. The dogs lick the dark spot where
she once sat.
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Minute Tatters and Filaments
The cysts, the bags, the genius, are past. When they die,
bags and cysts are broken up into minute tatters and
filaments, small pieces between the fingers.
Time and genius put together only curt fragments,
unequal stories, compartments.
When they die, time and genius are broken up into
unequal compartments, small pieces put together
between minuteness and a foolish, frivolous, disgraceful
past.
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Ritual
Five rows of children, ten deep, on a field, all facing the
same direction. Each child wears blue shorts and a white
t-shirt, except the head of each row wears a yellow shirt.
The children stand motionless for several minutes while
parents watch idly from the stands. In unison, the head
of each row turns to face the other children.
After a few more minutes of motionless silence, the
head children raise their hands and clap, slowly at first,
then building frenetically.
The fourth child in row three begins to cry, just
momentarily, regains composure and smiles. The head
children stop clapping; the other children exhale a long,
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drawn out breath, and the head of each row combusts in
blinding white flames.
As the heads burn, the remaining rows consume
themselves in conflagration, all fifty children enveloped
in piercing white heat. The parents get up and file out ofthe bleachers.
Head children are only smoldering heaps of ashes now,
and its not long before the rest are too. Once theparents have left, sprinklers turn on, water dissolves the
ash.
The sprinklers turn off, the ashy water recedes,
absorbed by the soil, leaving fifty scorch marks in the
middle of the field.
Another group of fifty children file onto the field and
line up on the scorch marks.
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After All This
After she had both breasts mastectomized,
three surgeries to remove cataracts (and refusing a
fourth),
a hip replacement,
a mild stroke,
chronic cysts on her ovaries,
a hysterectomy,
living with a mind not sharp enough to talk about
anything but the past,
your grandmother passed away when an inept medical
practitioner mixed Low-P with her prescriptions at a
level toxic for a women of her diminished physicality.
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Context of a Birth
I could be thinking about your physical placement,
what can be a continuum and what is chance. You place
yourself innately on a mesa. There are blue hills at each
horizon, the light falls onto your open space, the path of
the sun and the planets are proportioned around you.
My perception of your location is not contingent, but
accords with an idea of location inside you, that turns in
you like a gyroscope, as you are moving. I believe in
this sense perception of place, because you experience it.
Your father was away, fighting, the village under attack.
The house shook, and your mother was in heavy labor
and surrounded by women. She didnt cry, but sat in a
puddle of urine and excrement.
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By the time the shelling stopped, youd been bundled
and put to your mothers breast. The women stayedaround them. It was a matter of debate whether this tiny
spirit would remain, when the souls of so many were
leaving like a wave that had to be struggled against. It
may be a sense of the shape of a space, or of the balance
of features of the space, or it may be a sense of a point
on the earth in relation to forces in the earth, which may
be affected by stars and planets, or it may be in relation
to stars and planets. The world is unhinged like that, or
at least your mother was.
They took her suggestion in stride, and insisted that she
was too young, and told her to look at you, that she had
to stay home and help you, that she would be much
more useful that way. So she did. So the place would sit
in her, its wide space with sun, as what it would be in
her memory of this time, how it would be perceived is a
matrix of how you were with some people around you,
not agents but catalyst or fuel for the perception of light
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on a wide space, so free as to be impersonal in the
company, implacable and impersonal.
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Splintered Tongues, Pelts
Your dogs have splintered tongues, grooved jowls from
the chair edge. The dark spot gone, seat almost worn toa hole from licking. Cmon, I call to the dogs, but they
still lick. I want them as remembrance, want them in my
home, hoping to forge a connection, but they refuse to
move from your grandmothers chair. Cmon, lets go. I
go to the kitchen looking for food, a bribe, but when I
return, the dogs proper are gone. Theyve left their pelts
in a heap next to the chair. For my purposes, this works
just as well as, if not better than, the whole dogs. Hoist
the pelts over my shoulder, and carry them home.
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Parm
Today, went to the grocery store, planning to get
ingredients to make chicken parmigiana. It took three
trips to get what I needed.
First trip, I came out with bread crumbs and sauce.
Thats it. I knew I needed more items before entering,
but just couldnt focus long enough.
Got home, unpacked and realized, I forgot the chicken.
I said it out loud. Chicken. So I went back and got
chicken.
Pound the chicken flat, dip it in flour, egg, breadcrumbs
and throw it in a pan of hot oil. Find comfort in these
simple acts.
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Once the breadcrumbs are golden brown, take the
chicken out and set it in a pan, top it with sauce, and get
ready to slide it in the oven.
But theres no cheese. Two trips already, and still no
cheese. Make my final trip, get cheese, slap it on the
chicken and bake it til bubbly.
I set plates out, serve the chicken. I got out two plates
because I made two chicken breasts.
I set a place for you at the table, even though I know
you wont, cant show. I set the place, served the
chicken, not thinking you couldnt show, just not
thinking.
Sat at the table eating the chicken, but staring the whole
time at your full plate, wondering how I could possibly
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have done this, why Ive done this to myself again, not
enjoying a meal I should have.
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Number Seven
A clump of yellow sticks to the doorknob. Theres
something that causes the stick, but its not red like youmight think. Nor white or blue. Colorless really, and
transparent more accurately. Transparency adopts the
color of whatever it covers, in this case the doorknob,
so the stick this time is brass colored. Theres an
element of yellow to the stick as well, most likely from
the hair, but also possibly from faded brass. The only
change after removing the transparency is the loss of
stick, which makes the yellow fall.
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Low-P
Metallurgists and botanists once argued about the
classification of Low-P because of its exceedingly high
iron concentration. Metallurgists contend that because
its primarily composed of a metal, it warrants
classification as such. The botanist argument is quite
clear: Any matter, regardless of physical composition
ratios, derived from plant-life, should necessarily be
accorded an appropriately botanical classification. What
finally put the argument to rest was the discovery of the
nature of the iron present in Low-P. That is, the iron in
Low-P does not entirely originate in Low-P, and at its
inception there is no more remarkable amount present
than in any other plant. However, Low-P allows for a
high level of absorption of ferromagnetic ore, iron being
the most abundantly available. As Low-P absorbs iron,its magnetic field expands and attracts more iron. Low-
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P functions as the main activator of seeds which require
iron for germination. The most straightforward exampleof Low-Ps role in germination is in the seed of the Xetl
tree, which requires comparatively large amounts of
iron to germinate. Without Low-P, the seed of the Xetl
tree would never grow organically. While the question
of classification as a botanical entity has long been
answered, metallurgists still keep Low-P on their radar.
Some believe Low-P iron absorption, left unabated,
could become toxic to the host plant. According to the
theory, once the plant matter decays, whats left is
thought to condense and solidify as iron ore over time.
Thus, Low-P plays an important role in the
perpetuation and development of ferromagnetic ore
deposits.
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Canary at the Cafe
Im seated on the patio of our favorite cafe, at one of
those round tables for two. Its midmorning on a
weekday and lightly raining, so theres no one walking
the sidewalks, but at least the umbrella is up this time.
The waiter fills my water glass and takes my order. Eggs
Benedict, of course, side of bacon, hash browns. I
almost order your French toast, but catch myself before
it comes out.
A canary lands on the back of the seat opposite mine,
its yellow feathers wet and ruffled. It cocks its head to
the side, hops from seat to table, hop hops over to my
steaming plate of food, chirps a little, but doesnt sing.
Only the males sing.
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I call the waiter over, ask for a second glass of water,
and maybe a Belgian waffle, or just one slice of French
toast, whichever is easiest. The water comes
immediately. Its not sparkling, but I imagine thats
better for the canary.
You always waited to drink until after your food was
gone. Nothing worse than finishing your meal and have
nothing to wash it down with, you said. Even the time
you started choking, you wouldnt sip the water to
move things along after you caught your breath.
The canary doesnt touch the water, but when the
waffle comes, it tears into it, like it hadnt eaten for
days, like it might never again. I try to coax it into
taking a sip of water, using a straw to place a small drop
on the table, but its too focused on the waffle.
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My foods starting to get cold now, but the canary has
my full attention. Sometimes Id watch you just thesame. Youd be reading, or watching television, and
when I should have been doing something else, Id lose
track of my responsibilities and just watch.
The canary finishes the waffle and hops to its perch on
the chair. The wind picks up, and the rain soaks my
back, so I lean forward a little. The canary misconstrues
my movement and flies off into the rain, yellow
eventually disappearing in gray.
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Others
Amelia Earhart assumed the identity of Irene Bolam,
and she (Amelia) vanished from the public eye, evenwhen she (Irene) did not.
There are no eyewitness accounts of John Haster de-
planing. Fans of his work have put his ten clues rule
to the test, but theyve never added up.
Frederick Valentich encountered an unidentified craft
flying at high speed dangerously close to his Cessna.
Whats most striking about Ambrose Bierce is his story
The Difficulties of Crossing a Field, in which a man
vanishes walking a field, which seems to predict his own
fate.
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The Norfolk Regiment marched into a mist, then the
mist seemed to rise, vertically, and joined the rest of the
clouds in the sky.
Glenn Miller never made it across the English Channel.
David Lang was a hoax based on The Difficulties of
Crossing a Field.
The crew and passengers of the Joyita in the South
Pacific. Five weeks later, the Joyita returned with no
one on board.
The Flannery Isle lighthouse keepers, from their
stations, leaving behind equipment important to
surviving the hostile conditions at that location and time
of year.
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The Kelpie, once harnessed or mounted, leaps into the
nearest body of water, taking its human captor with it.
New Hampshires Old Man on the Mountain, on a
foggy day.
You, me, and everyone else, if it makes it all easier to
swallow.
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Number Eight
Found the rock again, but its not spinning. How has it
changed? What is the season? There are shavings in mymouth. Will they be of any greater value in my ears,
pockets, or over my eyes, combined with the rock? It
sings music, sweats motion, teeters on the brink of
immolation, and even so, it may not be a rock, could be
a seed, could be the reason it doesnt spin. The
difference may be key, but dont discount the effect of
commonality.
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Your Grandmothers Transformation
Your grandmother has transformed from living,
geriatric being to corpse, to cadaver, to decaying fleshunderground, and will eventually become bones only.
Bones some day decompose to a fine dust. The cheap
box housing her will also break apart, and she will be
absorbed by the earth. At which point has she
disappeared? Is disappearance actually possible?
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A Maze as a Map
We took an aerial shot of the maze, printed it, and used it
for a map. Made lines that zigzagged from start to finishwith pink fluorescent highlighter. The walls of corn seven
feet tall, five feet thick, covering six acres. Exit and entrance
are only separated by five feet. So, were going to spend
hours in this thing, and were only going five feet to the left?
I say. You ignore me and enter.
We make a left turn. Inside the maze, surrounded by
nothing but stalks of corn, with no points of reference, the
map was useless, and you knew it would be, so you
memorized your turns. Left, pass opening on left, pass
opening on right, next right, next left. Youre only a few feet
ahead, but I lose you around every turn. I make the turn
and find you, just for a second before you disappear behind
another turn. Left, pass two more lefts, left, quick left,
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immediate right.
I make the next left, but dont see you. Right, right, pass
right, pass left, u-turn on right, left, instead of right, right,
second right, left. If we took that aerial shot of the maze
right now, it would show us separated by only a few wallsof corn. I the brown dot, you the yellow. Left, right,
straight past four openings, next left, all in vain, no hope of
catching up to you. I stand still to listen, but now were too
far apart for sound to give any indication of where you
might be. Everything Ive learned about being lost is to stay
put, wait for help, but thats not what I do.
I run straight through the corn walls, knowing Ill
eventually make it out. I hold up my arms to block my face,
but ears of corn still slap me, husks still cut me. After several
minutes of small cuts on the back on my hands and cornsilk
in my eyes, mouth, hair, I emerge from the maze five feet
from the exit, but on the side opposite the entrance. Now I
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sit and wait, but you dont appear. Its been hours and
youre still not out. The aerial shot shows the brown dotoutside the maze, but no yellow inside.
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City Lights
When all the lights in the city go out, and I no longer
see, it disappears from my view, but not altogether. Still
there, people still existing, but shifting always,
inhabiting different, sometimes darker spaces. When the
lights go back on, the city, the people dont change, the
shift of disappearance and reappearance externallymanifest. Physicality continues even if visuality does
not.
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We Taste the Wetness Together
You live in a hole.
For thirty minutes a day, as the sun drifts by overhead,
light filters through the dense foliage of the surrounding
Xetl trees and you can see.
Every few days, roots puncture the walls of your hole.
You nestle your cheek against the soil and gnaw on the
root. Otherwise, you eat soil dense with nutrients and
moisture.
The dirt under your fingernails and in the cracks of
your skin is permanent now.
When animals fall into your hole, dont eat them. Let
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them reside for a time, then help them free.
Open your mouth when it rains, but when it fills the
hole to your neck, close it.
Clothes never dry, but moisture recedes into soil.
Your hole is a cylinder, eight feet deep, three in
diameter.
Over time, you acquire a taste for soil only, but dont
neglect the roots. Neglected roots form a ladder system,
and you may be tempted to climb out, but you wont
have to resist for long. It only lasts a few minutes; then
you appreciate the roots.
One week out of the year, the Xetl tree drops foliage.
Stockpile as much as falls in your hole for padding and
warmth, but dont eat the leaves.
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Im in the hole with you. Not for help or comfort, but
for a shared experience.
When you open your mouth in the rain, I open mine.
We can taste the wetness at the same time, but not
together. When cold, I can be cold too. Experience it
together, but never discuss it.
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Number Nine
Theyre all useless all, the search futile, the numbers a
waste of yours and mine. What have I missed? What ismissing? Is there anything to miss? We watch together,
you and I, complicit in what happens. Despite the
distance we try to forge between us, we still remain
linked in this one act, you a participant now. If I saw
you walking like I used to, you would see it, you would
watch it all the same. The difference is you watch me
too. I talk to you, you not to me, but Im counting on
your perspective, banking on your ability to reason.
What I miss, you miss, and what you miss, I never get a
sense of.
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You in the Flood
It happens like this. I make it through the day usually,
up to the point where Im lying in bed with dog pelts,and Ive stopped distracting myself with periphery. It
comes in a flood. You in the flood. It starts with images,
usually of you walking. At first in the rain, then snow,
eventually sun, all days compounded into one
disorderly sequence of images. Quick and seemingly
random, then slow and repeating. As the images slow,
fragments of conversations loop. Sometimes image and
audio align, but its not a sure bet, and its easier when
they dont. Eventually, I have to get up. Crawl out of
bed, slip on socks, slide across the hardwood, down the
stairs. In the kitchen, I open the pantry, reach in the
back for a small bag. The seeds I want are in the bag, at
least a hundred in there, but I only take out five. Sitting
at the table, seeds lined up in front of me, with a glass of
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water. Pop one seed in, wait thirty minutes, then pop
another. Between seeds, I go back to my bed and get thedog pelts, and then, seated in the kitchen, set them at my
feet. Swallow another seed. Repeat until gone. Wait to
see if theyll work tonight.
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The Surface of Motion
Did she exist? A passenger I can no longer describe or
account for? There was an absence there, but one soconstant it became familiar. Each time I see her, I think
about the white path, beyond the color of fields, heat,
appearing in moments of tranquility. She is there, she is
always there, appearing voiceless, faceless, terraced,
among trees, renewed through the act of memory. All
my ideas are liquid, and there is water where memory
should be.
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The Seed of the Xetl Tree
The muscles in her face slide down off the bone and rest
in her neck. The subcutaneous fat rests slightly higher inher jowls.
The seed of the Xetl tree may be implanted orally or
vaginally. In either method, iron is key to germination.
In the vaginal method, the seed is implanted in the
uterine wall, generally around the time of ovulation, and
absorbs iron from the endometrial layer. When taken
orally, the seed enters the stomach and, in best cases,
attaches to the upper stomach and absorbs iron as
nutrients pass through the stomach lining. Most often,
the seed of the Xetl tree drops into the pool of stomach
acid and disintegrates.
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She holds a small mug full of green tea in her only hand,
takes a sip, and throws the mug against the wall. Shetries to scream, but it comes out as muffled sound
because she no longer has the facial muscles required to
move her jaw. The mug chips on the rim, but otherwise
sits intact on the floor. The steaming water collects in a
spreading pool, with tea leaves clumped in the middle.
She rubs her nub arm on her thigh.
A week ago she called me.
Will you help me with something?
Should be able to, but depends.
On what? Why wont you just help?
Depends on what it is and how much itll cost
me. She hung up. Five minutes later, called back. I need
help getting something and it wont cost you anything.
The oral method has a higher failure rate, but works
more efficiently when successful. The higher failure rate
often requires multiple attempts at implantation.
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When implanted vaginally, the seed of the Xetl tree has
a failure rate nearing zero but takes much longer to
germinate.
My phone rings. Hello? On the other end, an
unintelligible reply. Ill come over, I say.
The successful vaginal attempt will take at least a week
to germinate because it is necessary for the endometrial
layer to thicken around the seed. Once germination
occurs, the seed of the Xetl tree is impervious to
menstrual flushing.
It is recommended to wait several days between
attempts at oral implantation. The successful attempt
will usually manifest itself within hours, but can take up
to a full day, depending on diet. Fragments of the
unsuccessful seed do not get absorbed into the body. It
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is therefore necessary to wait until seed matter is
excreted through fecal matter.
A seed of the Xetl tree clings to her uterine wall as the
endometrium thickens around it.
She pops the seed I just brought her into her mouth,
and washes it down with wheat grass. Now we wait, I
say. She nods until the fat in her jowls and the muscles
in her neck offer resistance. She motions with her armfor me to sit beside her. The fat under her arm continues
to wave after the rest of her arm has stopped. The seed
attaches itself to her stomach lining and absorbs iron
from the wheat grass. Following germination, the seed
of the Xetl tree will pierce the stomach or uterine lining
and spread tendrils throughout the body along vein and
artery paths. These tendrils are as soft and flexible as the
veins and arteries themselves. Whereas the seed of the
Xetl tree absorbs iron, the tendrils draw toxins out of
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surrounding tissue. The toxin absorption process allows
the tendrils to continue growth in both circumferenceand length, but also frees the body of destructive
substances.
The tendrils in her arm expand, extend to the end of hernub arm, push the skin until they form a hand and
fingers. Tendrils of the Xetl tree absorb excess fat from
her arms, thighs, ass, torso, neck, and burn it for energy.
They push the muscles back up into her face. She smiles.
Youre back, I say.
Get me a mirror, please.
I run to the bathroom, rip the mirror off the wall,
struggle to carry it to her. She stares at her reflection.
You
No, wait, she says and continues to stare for
several minutes. Im beautiful. She leaves the room
briefly, returns with a camera. Here, she says and hands
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it to me. Take my picture.
She sits at home, holding the picture in her new hand.
The seed of the Xetl tree, deep in the iron rich
endometrial layer, sprouts and pierces the uterine wall,
spreads throughout her body.
Whats wrong, I say. Shes in pain and cant speak, so
she screams into the phone. Im coming over.
She waits in the front yard, standing calmly, perhaps
confused, belying her demeanor on the phone. As I
approach, tendrils puncture the end of her toes and
burrow into the ground. Her body stiffens as tendrils
double up on existing paths. They feed off nutrients
from her body, suck bones of marrow and veins of
blood, replace blood with plant matter, and eventually
form a solid mass just below her sternum that spreads
vertically in both directions. I watch as the mass shoots
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downward through her vagina into the ground, forming
a deep, intricate root system. Her head thrusts up as themass moves through her chest to her neck, mouth wide
open as it moves through her windpipe, and as she gasps
for air, the trunk of the Xetl tree exits her gaping
mouth, slowly at first, then building speed as it sucks in
carbon dioxide through its emerging foliage. It absorbs
her, expands upward and outward, until she is a Xetl
tree, firmly rooted in her front lawn.
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